


Idolatry

by Madtom_Publius



Series: Valley Forge [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Gen, Hero Worship, M/M, enslaved character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6321190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madtom_Publius/pseuds/Madtom_Publius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton and Laurens agreed on just about everything, except, it seemed, General Washington</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire, edited for grammar and tweaked for content

Laurens looked up from his parchment for the second time, looking over to the adjoining room, where even the closed door could not muffle the escalating shouts of the Commander-in-Chief, who in the past hour had worked himself into a temper. The two other aides in the room briefly glanced up when they heard a fist slam against a table, but returned to their work as quickly lest their general walk out at any moment and accuse them of indolence; Laurens knew while they all loved and admired the General, many of the other aides also feared him. He had no such dread of his beloved Commander, for he found whenever Washington was excited it was typically for good reason; but then it was always easier to observe a display of anger than to be on the receiving end of it, and it never occurred to Laurens that his connection to the president of Congress would serve to buffer him from episodic wrath.

Out of the corner of his eyes, John caught sight of William Lee as he walked despondently back toward the door, carrying a glass of wine to perhaps calm His Excellency’s nerves. Laurens leaned over and whispered, “Has more unpleasant news arrived from the Congress?”

Lee shook his head, furrowing his brows. “Worse than that, I’m afraid, Colonel Laurens. General Washington has since learned that more men of the New Jersey militia have run off.”

Laurens gripped the quill tightly between his hands. “The cowards,” he spat.

“That’s what His Excellency said.” Lowering his voice, he added, “I’m sure all able soldiers share your sentiments.”

The militia continued to prove their inadequacy time after time, further cementing into their minds the importance of a professional army. “Billy, did he say how many men?”

“Upwards of twenty.” Lee’s eyes looked back to the door as the voice on the other side heightened again. He was thankful for any brief delay that day, for no other person had to deal with Washington’s irritability so often as he did and there were no fox hunts here to redirect those energies.

But the interruption did not last long as the door opened and the lithe figure of Colonel Hamilton stepped out. Lee and Laurens noticed that despite his stiff facial features, the color of his cheeks had considerably paled since he had first stepped into the room to deliver the news to the General. Lee looked back from Hamilton to Laurens once more, steeling himself before making his way back to the Commander’s quarters.

John reached for his friend’s arm as he passed, and was surprised to feel it shaking. Alexander roughly pulled his arm back, sitting himself in the closest chair before grabbing a pen and furiously began scribbling on the parchment His Excellency’s orders. He could feel blue eyes staring at him, but he remained uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the day, saying nothing as he continued to write furiously demand after demand to Congress.

It wasn’t until dinner that Washington rejoined the family, and his passions had cooled considerably enough that he made agreeable company. It helped that the Marquis had returned, for his presence more than anyone’s had a way of brightening the General’s countenance. But Laurens noticed how far out of his way Hamilton went to avoid His Excellency, and when he had given a curt bow to Washington before leaving his presence John had detected the slightest hurt in the General’s features.

Hamilton was the last of the aides to return that night. Laurens turned over as he felt Hamilton’s back press against his. He tentatively brushed his shoulder, but Alexander’s gaze remained fixed on the opposite wall, clutching the blankets about him tighter. “Alexander, you’ve spoken barely a word,” he whispered. “I’m as enraged by the news of the desertions as you, but what have I done to deserve such coldness?”

“I am tired, John, and if it’s at all proper I’d rather sleep while I am able,” he huffed, hesitating only a moment before adding, “Besides, I’m certain His Excellency will find an excuse to wake me early.” Hamilton was terrible at hiding his bitterness, and Laurens could not help but pick up on the source of his discontent.

“Did the General reprimand you?”

Alexander narrowed his eyes. “Have I done anything worth reprimanding?” His voice lowered until it was barely audible. “He has wronged me.”

John gasped in doubt. “Impossible. General Washington is a model of virtue and justness. He would not wrong any subordinate, not purposely at least. You are mistaken.”

Glaring over his shoulder, Hamilton pressed his mouth in a thin line. If it was one subject he and his friend differed on, it was their opinion of the General. While both admired his abilities and considered him the first citizen of his country, Hamilton could not help but think his friend held sentiments that bordered on blind idolatry. His Excellency could do no wrong in his eyes. He was ever dutiful and unquestioning. “I had only delivered the news to him, and yet he treated me as though I had been the one to desert him.”

“I am certain he means nothing by it. You have seen what he has to command here. No food, fewer and fewer supplies and blankets, and now his men deserting him in his hour of need. You are aware of what value he places on you.”

Hamilton pouted, his head sinking more into the pillow as he tried closing his eyes to fall asleep. After a few minutes of no response but heavy breathing, Laurens laid back down. But his friend’s ticklish temper once riled did not calm easily, and it festered in his mind until he said, “That knowledge, if it crossed his mind, did not hinder his ill humor.”

“Don’t be upset.” John rubbed his friend’s upper arm reassuringly.

But he was upset. And he did not know how to convey that to his friend without prickling his own vanity. How did he explain how it felt to stare down volcanic wrath without being able to respond in kind? To take the abuse he did not feel he deserved? To bite his tongue because he had no support system to rely on should he be dismissed from the family? And then the sinking, almost mortifying pit that formed when the General had approached him at dinner, to see how many dispatches he had completed and how “his boy” was fairing. How could he express this to a man who considered their Commander an unerring role model to be studied and emulated, without risking their friendship?

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally authored by Madtomedgar
> 
> Originally posted: http://madtomedgar.tumblr.com/post/42240228110/below-the-cut-is-an-immediate-follow-up-to

Alexander don’t respond, though I can feel that fuming. I should just turn over and sleep if he's going to be like this, but I hate it when we go to sleep without making amends, and the way he's been acting, it’s not inconceivable that I may have done something, albeit inadvertently, to cause offense. He really is spectacularly touchy.

“Alexander, you’ve made no secret of it all day that you're upset; there’s no sense in denying it.” my prodding observation is met with stony silence. It strikes me suddenly how little time we've actually known each other, that his peeves and whims still catch me so unawares should come as no surprise, yet it pains me that after such an acquaintance, however brief, he still, when it comes to it, refuses to trust me with his sentiments. I do my best to remove all traces of exasperation from the concerned curiosity he's engendered before asking “Why won’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

He heaves an angry sigh but won’t turn over. “What would be the point? It’s probably silly, I’m probably overreacting, and besides, _you_ wouldn’t understand.” The sharp sarcasm would cut enough if I couldn't tell he were mimicking my own inflection from a few moments ago. But he is incapable of cruelty unless it's deserved. So I must have done something.

“Then explain it to me.” There is a game my father will sometimes play when he is especially disappointed in something I've done, where he will leave me to determine what the offending action is myself, and offer nothing but ire until I've identified my sin myself. To create in me an awareness of my own shortcomings so that, by constant and studious self-reflection, I may avoid falling into dissipation. I've never been particularly good at this game.

My offer is met with a scoff, and it is increasingly difficult not to be irritated by Alexander's persistent sulking. He's supposed to be my friend, and while I would meekly accept such high-handedness from a father, it rankles that Alexander thinks he can treat me as anything other than an equal. But such thoughts are vain and uncharitable. If he treats me in this as his inferior, it's because I have behaved as one. And so I must find out how. “Explanation would serve no purpose," he snaps over his shoulder. "You can’t possibly understand because he doesn’t do this to you. You and dear Fayette are his favored sons, but not me. You heard him today.” He's actually sneering at me, as I've heard him sneer about other officers he thinks thick or pampered.

I will admit, what choice do I have, that, at least in this case, I must be thick, to not only not understand what he's talking about. But for him to think me _incapable_ of being taught... I love him but the man sorely knows how to try my patience. Of course I know that he and our general do not have the smoothest relationship, that they do on occasion clash, that Hamilton is downright paranoid that either he will lose his position and all his hopes for advancement or that Washington will forever keep him in his position, thus destroying his hopes for advancement. We are all aware of his Excellency's occasional frustration, but he has cause. But at least now I know that this little snit is due mostly to the general's temper rather than my own failings. “His Excellency was just angry about those cowards in the militia–” I try to explain again, as patiently and gently as possible, but Alexander interrupts me.

“He treated me like I was personally responsible. All I did was inform him.” 

His feelings are hurt and he's enraged at the perceived unfairness and clearly completely sincere, yet I cannot help but feel there must have been some misunderstanding. It would hardly be the first instance of such between them. Besides, Washington is a hard man but a fair one, and “I cannot believe he would—”

“ _That’s because he doesn’t do it to you_!” His words come out in an angry hiss, and he would most likely be shouting were he not worried about waking the others, and there is a bitterness underlying it that I was not expecting, a deep resentment towards me. Of course I would sow that in those closest to me. “He would never dare treat you in such a manner because he cannot run the risk of alienating your father! Or are you really so naïve as to believe that being the son of one of the richest and most influential men on the continent and the president of the congress besides carried with it no special privileges?”

The now-obvious disdain I hadn't realized he harbored burns. It had been a private fear, that my appointment and everything that came with it had all been for the sake of my father's support, that any or recognition I received had been mere flattery, that they'd all been humoring my incompetence and my laziness this entire time... and Alexander had convinced me to relinquish that fear, and now he has the audacity to accuse me of naivety for allowing myself to trust him? I can't muster the anger I wish to, because he's right, and I'm ashamed, and I'd give anything for him not to be. “The General is above such petty concerns.” is the only defense I can manage. And I'm mostly saying it to convince myself.

Some of Hamilton's fury has burnt itself out, and perhaps he realizes that he tread too carelessly, as he's gone from sniping to delivering an annoyed but illuminating explanation. “The General is pragmatic. He is angry, granted, any man would be. He wants to unleash his rage at someone, _fine_. He can’t rail at _you_ because he can’t risk incurring your father’s displeasure. He can’t shout at Fayette because to do so could jeopardize the whole French alliance. He can’t shout at Tilghman, or Harrison, or any of the others because they too all have rich, influential families whose good opinion the army needs, and their work is invaluable and they, and you, can always resign and go back to your estates. But I’ve neither connections to protect me nor anywhere to go if I resign, so he’s gotten the idea that he may use me however his humor dictates, and frankly, I would have left this ‘family’ months ago if I had the option, as in addition to _this_ it offers no opportunities for military distinction, and I did not join up to be his whipping-boy.” Hamilton's voice gets thicker and quicker as he continues, until it cracks at the end. I hadn't realized before how hard he took the distinction between our families, or what he thought it meant. 

It makes sense that even one so remarkably in control of his passions as General Washington would occasionally need to give them vent, especially when so tried by events as he. And I cannot deny that Alexander, with his privileged position among his brother aides, feels the brunt of that. Still… “I think he is more angry in general than angry with you.”

“Be that as it may, he has _no_ right to take it out on me. I did _nothing_ to deserve that. And then afterwards, coming to make sure I’d finished my extra work double quick or else…”

I can’t seem to recall that happening, and I was with him all day until he went off to find other than friendly consolation to balm his perceived slights. “When was that?”

“After supper, surely you noticed.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Alexander, he was trying to apologize.”

Another scoff. “The hell he was.”

I've noticed that Alexander tends to ascribe the worst motives to his most innocuous actions  “Now you’re being unfair.” I should have known that was the wrong thing to say. He jerks away from me, swinging his legs down to the floor. He practically spits “Since my bout of spleen disturbs you, I think I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.” I grab his arm before he can storm off and manage to pull him back into bed despite halfhearted struggle, but he's livid. Perhaps I should have let him go, but if I can’t give him comfort when he's troubled, I'm no friend at all? “Alexander, what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop defending him to me. I _know_ he’s a great man, but, Jesus, John, he’s not a god! He’s just as capable of behaving badly towards his inferiors when his temper gets the better of him as anyone else, and not only does it grate to have to take the brunt of it when I’m working as hard as I can for him and a good deal harder than most, I should add, but on top of this I get to see that I’m the only one getting used in this manner because the rest of you are too well-born to tolerate it!”

“I’m sorry. You shouldn't have to put up with that.” I move to fix his hair, and he doesn't brush me away, so I suppose that’s a start.

“And then he has the audacity to expect _affection_ after I’ve had to put up with all his abuse…” I think I've finally lighted on the proper response to him, a sympathetic ear and a comforting hand at his back, the occasional murmur of support. Eventually he's said what he needs to and his anger has distilled into exhaustion. We settle in to our usual positions and I should just let him rest, but something he said is gnawing at my mind. “I never asked for special treatment. You know I’d rather share your lot than be the recipient of that which I have done nothing to merit.”

Alexander reaches up to stroke my face in the way he does whenever I’ve said something he finds endearingly foolish. I'd hate it if his little touches didn't so damnably turn my head. “I know, my dear. But that’s not the way the world works.” he says and pecks me on the forehead before drifting off.


End file.
